The Sexual Habits Of Pac-Man

Posted by Greg on July 24th, 2012

Do you ever find yourself thinking about really strange things? Have you ever been lost in thought during a meeting at the office and then snapped to, realizing that the things that you were thinking were so off the wall that had your coworkers any inkling of what was going on in your head, they’d have you fucking keel-hauled on general principle? Yeah, that’s me. I think of weird shit all of the time, such as what Pac-Man’s sex life must be like.

You think you know Pac-Man, but how much do you really know? A lot of people think that he’s married, but he’s not. It’s Ms. Pac-Man, after all, not Mrs. Pac-Man. They’re not married, but they have the same name. So that cut-scene where they kiss and then a bunch of little Pac-Babies show up? Yeah, Pac-Man is getting it on with his sister. Fucking gross. (It’s why the Pac-Man franchise died off: Inbred offspring. You try outrunning a ghost when you’ve got an IQ of 6 and you’re dragging a fucking tail around behind you.)

And if that’s the kind of hideous filth that Namco let us see, just imagine what was going on behind the scenes? Meth use, sexual deviancy, Scientology, and a long downward spiral that could only have ended with Pac-Man’s lifeless body being pulled from a septic tank. I feel for those Pac-Babies, that’s for fucking sure. They’re thirty-two years old now, but their traumatic past will never leave them. By now they’re probably jaded whores in a filthy Bangkok brothel. “Yeah, Pac-Man is my father, that piece of shit.” (spits) “Now, you want me to tongue your ass or what?”

But my strange musings aren’t limited to just video game characters and their sexual peccadilloes. The other day I remembered a short story I’d read when I was in high school. In it, a doctor who was desperate for cash decided to fly a Cessna full of heroin into the United States, only he crash landed on a deserted isle in the middle of nowhere. Trying to catch some food a few days later, he suffered a compound fracture of the ankle, which soon became infected. Realizing that he was going to die, he took a bunch of heroin and amputated his own foot. Waking up near death from lack of food and blood loss, he realized that the only way he was going to survive was to eat his own foot, which he promptly did. Then, because you know how it is once you start snacking, he started lopping off other body parts and eating them.

That’s why smart heroin smugglers never leave home without a cooler full of snackin’ feet.

I know what you’re thinking: Sounds like a weekend at Charlie Sheen’s house. I agree. But it made me realize that there is a small, but certainly non-zero number of people in the history of mankind who have eaten one or more of their own feet. (I’m not talking about eating someone else’s foot, though. That’s all too common. Anyone who has ever eaten at Arby’s has done that.) Holy shit! How many people have done that in the history of mankind? Ten? A hundred? Twenty-seven thousand? I have a real need to know this information, and as usual the United States Census Bureau is no help at all.

Government Drone: U.S. Census Bureau, how may I direct your call?

Me: To whomever can tell me how many people in the United States eat one or more of their own feet in a given year.

Government Drone: …

Me: Hello?

Government Drone: Sir, that information is classified.

Fuckers! Instead of being able to extrapolate a reasonable estimate of FIIPM (Foot Ingestion Incidence Per Million), I’m stuck guessing. (For reasons involving remoteness of terrain, harsh weather, and sheer hillbilliness, I’ve determined that the top three foot eating states are Alaska, South Dakota, and Kentucky. The foot eating capital of the world, on the other hand, is Monaco where the royal family all hobble around on crutches, drooling and spitting out Dr. Scholl’s inserts from time to time. They’ve gotten to be a real problem.)

Once you let your brain start running amok down the lesser known alleyways in your mind, you’d be surprised where it winds up taking you. One day you’re thinking about how to marinate your feet (fill your shoes with Italian dressing?), and the next you’re obsessed with the Cavity Creeps and their never ending war with Toothopolis. Remember those fucking commercials?

So many questions: Are the Cavity Creeps functionally retarded? Why does the alert system say “New Crest Gel! New Crest Gel!” instead of a more traditional siren sound? And most importantly, who taught that dog at the end of the commercial to bark “Crest! Crest!” and how long did that take? (One can’t help but think that the makers of Crest missed an opportunity here: A toothpaste that makes your dog talk? My dog would’ve been smiling like Paris Hilton over a pile of blow if I thought I could make him talk by brushing his teeth. Crest sales would’ve been through the roof!)

Here’s another one. Remember how in Jurassic Park they took mosquitos trapped in amber and pulled viable DNA from the blood they had ingested? What’s keeping me from doing that? The next time I get bit by a mosquito, I’m going after the fucker with a bottle of Mrs. Buttersworth. Put a couple of sugary skeeters in a jar labeled “Human DNA from the year 2012 inside: Reanimate when the Chicago Cubs win the World Series” and the next thing you know it’s 3221, the Cubs are world champions, and sexbots are all the rage. That’s fucking win-win.

(Speaking of Mrs. Buttersworth, what kind of a sick motherfucker designed that bottle? “You see? You just twist her skullcap off and pour her gooey innards over your food!”)

I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but I still prefer the classic, topless Mrs. Buttersworth.

I’d say that this, shall we say, unconventional thinking is a problem, but I really enjoy it. It’s entertaining, it keeps me from getting bored, and it doesn’t even really get in the way anymore because I’ve gotten so good at winging it:

Me: (trying to calculate if Led Zeppelin and their roadies combined went through more groupies than Jimmy Page went through guitar strings)

Coworker: …so I guess that the answer ultimately hinges on Greg. Greg? What do you think?

Me: Well, let’s not jump ahead here. How sure are we of our assumptions?

Coworker: Our assumptions that we’re running out of time because it’s 4:30 on a Friday afternoon? Pretty sure.

Me: Exactly. That question answers itself, doesn’t it? Why are we even having this meeting, dammit? We’re just wasting time!!! (gets up, leaves in a huff)

Ok, I don’t really have a point here (as if you haven’t noticed). What I’m really after is some goddamn answers. So, down in the comments below, I want a discussion on the following:

Have you ever had sex with a relative of Pac-Man, and if so, how was it?

How many human beings in the history of mankind have eaten one or more of their own feet?

Can your dog bark the word, “Crest!” or any other dental hygiene words on command?

Who is Mrs. Buttersworth married to, and what kind of freaky shit are they into?

Get crackin’, people, I can’t answer all of these myself. I’m too busy, and I have a meeting to go to.

19 Responses to “The Sexual Habits Of Pac-Man”

I cannot think of the Pillsbury Doughboy without this scene unfolding: Just like the commercial, someone pokes him in the belly and he giggles. They do it again, he giggles again. They do it again and he slaps their hand away and says, “Stop it! That’s a form of abuse, you know!”

As you can guess, they do not know that it exists. I’m not terribly worried about someone finding out about it, but I do not want it widely known for the obvious reason that there are an awful lot of people out there without a sense of humor who would take my shit seriously. For instance, I never sleep in meetings. I’m on way too much acid to be able to go to sleep.

Oh, and you didn’t ask, but in the same category, extended family doesn’t know about it either. There are some notoriously humor impaired people on both sides that I’d rather not have to field irate phone calls from.

See, this is why I love reading your blog. I’m afraid my brain doesn’t come up with such interesting back alleys and it is a riot reading the stuff that goes on in yours and wondering why I never wondered this stuff before.

By the way, if Mrs. Butterworth’s yummy, buttery insides are wrong I don’t want to be right.

Yes, my browser history is utterly fucked up from trying to find pictures to illustrate the crazy shit I write. Every now and again I will show my wife something to make sure she knows that I ran across it on accident, dammit.

Me: Honey, come here and look at this.

Wife: GROSS! What the fuck?

Me: Hahaha, with a pool cue and a watermelon!

Wife: Why in the world…?

Me: I know. Anyway, this post I wrote on the joys of fatherhood? I needed a picture illustrating being caught having sex in bed by your kids and this is what I wound up with.

This was amazing. I’m so glad I found your blog, it was a link in the Led Zeppelin forum that led me here. The random things you come up with are just awesome. I’m also happy to say that me and my eleven year old brother read your shit all the time and just laugh, he loved the post about that horrible fifth grade teacher you had since he had a suckish one himself. Thank you for entertaining us, better than most of the online comedians I can find now. 😀

Jeez, what a moaner. You got to get cancer to make you lose your hair. At least that gets you some sympathy. Some of us just had to lose theirs naturally, through genetic inheritance, which trust me, gets you no sympathy at all.

I miss my long blonde tresses. Except for the maintenance; running the clippers over my head once a week is much less work than trying to keep long hair neat.

It apparently doesn’t discriminate – again like a computer. For other older men, unfortunately, they sentence themselves to a life of loneliness or “leftovers. Long distance relationships, like an expensive mink suit, should be treated with great care and attention to detail.